Un Bellissimo Inganno: A Most Beautiful Deception
by liriaen
Summary: With all their forces, and under the colour and pretence of aid, they had plotted against me: A drabble countdown of historical events leading up to Senigallia. Cesare Borgia, Miguel da Corella, Machiavelli, plus assorted condottieri. Contains slash.


**Title**: Un Bellissimo Inganno ("A Most Beautiful Deception")

**Characters**: Cesare Borgia, Miguel da Corella, assorted condottieri.

**Word Count**: 2115 [19 x 100 word drabbles and then some.]

**Rating/Warnings** R [m/m sex, violence, generous dollops of syphilis]

**Summary**: As summaries go, "I'm in ur palazzo, fuckin' ur princedom" was a cheap shot, ne? So I'll bow to Cesare for this one, who, in the early hours of 1 January 1503, wrote to the Venetian Doge: "Believing that, by the departure of the French troops who returned to Lombardy, they would be able to effect their former designs, there joined me in my undertaking of Sinigallia, the Duke of Gravina, Paolo Orsini, Vitellozzo da Castello and Liverotto da Fermo, with all their forces, and under the colour and pretence of aid, [they] had plotted against me that in which I, having foreseen and discovered [it] forestalled them and made them prisoner, to put an end to their infinite perfidy and malignity."

**A/N**: Less Cantarella, more history - and probably closer to Souryo Fuyumi's "Cesare" manga. All in all, a countdown of historical events (through the slasher's eye, of course). Written for Cesare's birthday on 13 September, and for katilara. :)

* * *

**---**

**Un Belissimo Inganno**

**---**

**31 December 1502, sixth hour of night, Senigaglia**

He plays with his gloves and slumps against the wall, its rustications grating against his spine.

It's colder here, by the sea. His breath turns to mist in the chilly air, but the haze suits him; he does not enjoy looking at the stars, lately. True, the planets have spoken to him of greatness, or so his astrologer says – thus he pays him, wondering what Behaim left unsaid.

When Michelotto comes out to greet him, his friend's hands are still clotted with gore. Bringing the fingers to his mouth, Cesare closes his eyes and kisses them, lightly, knuckle by knuckle.

---

**30 September 1502, La Magione**

Paolo Orsini was lining up the year's first chestnuts on the table, whistling a dance tune. He remembered how smooth they had felt in his pocket, enjoyed how they reflected the light.

It was better than looking at Vitellozzo's ravaged face, anyway.

Gianpaolo slammed down his wine, spilling some. "I say, we're in danger of being devoured by a dragon. What the son grants, the father claims for the church. Either way, we're-"

"Quiet," Cardinal Orsini snorted. "Think."

"Cesare wants Bologna, in tyrannis," Petrucci said reasonably. "But Gian' is right. First he'll fuck you like the common whores you are."

---

**7 October 1502, en route**

"Madonna, what a beehive." It was the fifth time the thin man had to jump aside to avoid being ridden into the ground. Cursing, he pulled out a notebook, and scribbled, _"...the Duke has spent, since I have been here, as much money for couriers and special messengers as anyone else would have spent in two years."_

Maybe the Signoria would get it now, niggardly mules that they were.

Worrying his lip, Niccolò hurried on. The Duke had graciously acknowledged the Florentine offer of support, knowing full well it was practically worthle-

Suddenly he yelped, stumbling over Cesare's outstretched leg.

---

**9 October 1502, Imola**

It had to be long past midnight, but Cesare's requisitioned palazzo in Imola was still bustling. He kept strange hours, Niccolò found. And even with his captains revolting, Urbino back in Montefeltro's hands, and the Pope raging in Rome, Cesare seemed... content.

At present he was busy writing dispatches and slurping wine, so Niccolò turned to his aide, noting that Don Miguel's doublet and camacia were in disarray, his sandy hair a mess.

"And this conspiracy," Niccolò whispered urgently. "It worries you not?"

"Nah," Michelotto yawned, his dark eyes going soft. "Cesare has been expecting something like this since June."

---

**25 October 1502, Imola**

"Paolo." Cesare rose, smiling at the youngest Orsini. "So glad you could come." He embraced him warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, slipping an arm under his elbow. He gestured for food and wine to be brought, and when they sat, he studied Paolo's wrists, his face inexpressibly sad.

"Why do you grieve me so?" he said quietly, lifting a fingertip to trace the corner of Paolo's mouth, the sweet dip of his chin. "I am losing sleep because of you."

Once their kisses turned greedy, Cesare pulled him to the floor - but unlike Paolo's, his eyes never fluttered shut.

---

**29 October 1502, Urbino**

"...concerning Restoration of their Lands, Holdings, and Privileges. We wish to end this harmful Enmity and Discord, with full Remission of all Injuries. It is Our Hope to greet them as Confederates in perpetual Alliance, wherefore We promise to defend their States."

"Bullshit."

"No," Paolo said, "he means it. He's in a quandary, Vitellozzo. His troops number one third of ours, at best, and his father is already shitting himself; Alexander has fled to Sant' Angelo with bag and baggage. Listen," he whispered, "Cesare offers a deal. And if he wants Petrucci's head? By all means, let him have it."

---

**6 November 1502, Imola**

The day didn't seem to break at all, and the light outside had faded into dusk before Cesare bothered to rise. He was ill with a fever, forced to kick his heels. At least it gave him an excuse to crawl back into Michelotto's arms.

As sword-callused fingers threaded through his hair, Cesare moaned loudly.

"Why hello there," Michelotto chuckled. "I thought you were sick."

"Am. Lift your legs a little."

"Fine. But keep your voice down, will you?"

"Why? It's my palazzo, and I can moan if I want to."

Michelotto swatted him. "With Machiavelli in your antechamber?"

---

**10 December 1502, en route**

The snows were heavy, making the passage from Imola unpleasant. Michelotto flanked the train of men-at-arms when something at the far end caught his attention: a single grey shape in a sodden mantle, struggling through the mud.

He pulled in his reins and laughed. "Messer Machiavelli. Over-informed and underpaid as always, I see."

Niccolò scowled. "I'll thank you not to mock me, Miguel. Bad enough His Grace has to ride out today," he complained, teeth chattering. "Care to enlighten me where he found an additional 5000 infantry and 800 armed cavalry?"

"French relatives, mayhap? I hear they're useful at times."

---

**20 December 1502, Cesena**

Machiavelli jumped. "He... he what?"

Agapito watched the Florentine wring his hands, going from glib diplomat to nervous wreck in under five seconds. Setting aside his documents, Cesare's secretary snapped: "God's bones, man. Curb your temper. What's it to you?"

"If the Duke dismisses his French forces, retaining only three squadrons in service? Why, the Orsini will have his spleen! And then they'll push for Florence!"

Agapito shrugged.

Machiavelli blanched.

Eventually, Cesare strode out, dressed for the hunt. He was cooing at an ermine in the crook of his arm. "Yes, Niccolò?" he asked, coldly. "Was there something you wanted?"

---

**22 December 1502, Cesena**

The blow threw his head against a bedpost and shook the canopy. His vision went blurry. He tried to fight the icy grip of iron but couldn't.

"That's how it feels," Michelotto hissed, yanking the chain. "You won't black out. You'll have time to empty your bowels and gag on your filth."

"You're... you're jealous," Cesare rasped. "How... amusing."

"You can ream every hole in town for all I care."

"This... because I danced with... Mona Cleofe?"

"This," Michelotto slapped him, "is because of Ramiro de Llorca whom I brought in for you while you were fucking around, you cunt."

---

**25 December 1502, Cesena**

Vitellozzo Vitelli.

Gianpaolo Baglioni, who had hacked his cousin Griffonetto to pieces for tying their name to a Blood Wedding.

Gentile Baglioni.

Cardinal Giambattista Orsini, the old half-blind lecher.

Francesco Orsini, duke of Gravina.

Paolo Orsini, lord of Palombara.

Franciotto Orsini.

Giovanni Bentivoglio.

Ermes Bentivoglio, who'd spattered Bologna with the blood of the Marescotti family.

Guidobaldo da Montefeltro.

Gianmaria Varano.

Giulio Cesare Varano.

Oliverotto da Fermo, who had killed all his kin, from loving uncle to last unborn babe.

Pandolfo Petrucci of Siena.

Waving the list, Cesare raised one eyebrow. "Those are all?"

"Yes-" Ramiro nodded eagerly, then choked.

---

**28 December 1502, Pesaro**

"Well fuck me, that's awkward," Michelotto mumbled, shielding his eyes against the winter sun as they rode up to the former Sforza castle.

Cesare followed his gaze and laughed. "What, doing it in Lucrezia's marital bed? I assure you, love doesn't live here anymore."

Further up the ramp, though, Cesare spotted the messenger and started forward: everything was sliding into place, moved by invisible hands. He passed the letter to Michelotto.

"They ask you to come to Senigaglia for a pair of keys?"

"Not very bright of them, is it," Cesare smiled. "Come, let's make it an early night then."

---

**30 December 1502, Senigaglia**

Paolo fastidiously looked away as soon as Vitellozzo started to fiddle with his codpiece. He had no desire to watch the stocky condottiere apply mercury to his penis; it was enough that Paolo had to smell it.

"So," Vitellozzo grunted, "he's sent word, yes?" It seemed as if he was addressing his cock, not the captains assembled in the room.

Oliverotto first glanced at Vitellozzo, then at Paolo. "Of course. He's vain enough. To have Andrea Doria bend his knee in front of the mighty Valentino? That'll please him as much as having his dick sucked. No offense intended, Vito."

---

**30 December 1502, Fano**

"Let's go over this again," Cesare murmured, but his hand was already pushing Da Vinci's maps off the table. Scattering plates of food, toppling the wine, his fingers dug underneath Michelotto's camacia, undoing the strings that fastened it to the hose. He bit Michelotto's chin. His neck. The spot where his shirts closed. He shoved him up and across the table and climbed on top of him, one arm curled under Michelotto's nape, the other pulling down his hose.

"That desperate?" Michelotto laughed, low under his breath.

Nostrils flaring, Cesare covered him with his body, hanging on for dear life.

---

**31 December 1502, tenth hour, en route**

The Adriatic shore looked dismal, a long stretch of nothing and scabby grey grass. Cesare's horse made a few prancing steps aside, but he nudged it on, patting the muscular neck.

Three miles outside of Senigaglia, the Orsini came up first. Paolo's finery was splendid, Cesare noticed, showing the family colours. Vitellozzo, hanging back, cut a less fine figure: he rode up on a mule, his body so bloated it nearly burst his farsetto. He stank, and Cesare's skin crawled as they embraced.

Still, they conversed amiably enough; Cesare even dismissed his advance guard and bade them be his escort.

---

**31 December 1502, twelfth hour, Senigaglia**

Oliverotto and Vitellozzo wheeled as soon as they heard the drawbridge, but the press of men drove them forward. "Devil take him," Oliverotto hissed, jerking his chin towards Michelotto. "Where did he come from?"

"Easy, friend," Paolo said. "He's been in town since yesterday, choosing suitable quarters for the Duke."

"Quarters for his troops, too?"

"His... what? What are you on about?"

Dismounting on the piazza, Paolo's heart sank at the sight of the cordon of Swiss pikes, but then there was Cesare, standing on the wide marble steps of Bernardino di Parma's palazzo, his cuirass glinting in the sun.

---

**31 December 1502, first hour of night, Senigaglia**

Cesare clapped Paolo on the back and used their embrace to gently bite his ear. "Come now, gentlemen," he said, turning to his captains, "come. No more of these contentious dealings - we have reason to celebrate, you and I. I've asked Messer Da Vinci to compose us a meal you'll find interesting."

Francesco Orsini frowned. "Since when do you dine in full armour?"

"Give me a moment and I'll shed it." Cesare nodded. "Whatever happened to Messers Baglioni, by the way? I don't seem to see them here."

"Called back to Perugia," da Fermo muttered. "Important business."

"What a shame."

---

**31 December 1502, fifth hour of night, Senigaglia**

One eye swollen shut, the other seeping blood, Oliverotto's head drooped until Michelotto pulled it up. "Don't leave us, love. There's time yet."

"Time!" Oliverotto started to whine piteously. "What for?" His stomach and chest were heaving against the ropes that bound him to Vitellozzo.

Michelotto studied his fingernails. "Oh, I don't know. Repent. Pray. Whatever men in your position are wont to do."

"Miguel," Vitellozzo rasped, rousing himself from his stupor, "by the blood of Our Saviour-"

"Yes, Vito?"

"-please, send me a confessor..."

Michelotto stroked the man's greasy hair with one hand, tightening the garrotte with the other.

---

**31 December 1502, sixth hour of night, Senigaglia**

"The troops are looting," Michelotto says, then disengages his fingers. "You may want to take care of that."

As their breaths curl together, Cesare nudges his forehead into the crook of Michelotto's neck. He's looking for warmth, but finds his friend bristling.

"Not now." Michelotto softly pushes him away. "Get going. They won't stop lest they see the Duke. Besides, Machiavelli's just arrived."

"The man's a horsefly."

Michelotto is right, of course; they can't afford a riot. Taking the torch to return to the palazzo, Cesare catches a glimpse of him leaning against the wall, eyes closed, humming a motet.

---

_fin_


End file.
